Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

An hour later, the cold was so severe that the fire no longer warmed them, and rubbing their hands and legs did not help. Every time they opened their mouths, vapour came out. The wind entered the mouth of the cave and seeped into the cracks, through the gaps in their clothing, and under their nails. Hans’s fingers felt hollow. Lamberg clenched his jaw. Franz swished his tail like a child attempting to shake frost off its rattle. The organ grinder had curled up under his blankets and was smiling peacefully. Shivering from cold, Reichardt suddenly burst into fits of laughter. His whole body shook, he laughed as only those about to freeze can laugh, he let out a puff of steam and began yelling: Butler, the stove, light the damned stove, will you? The organ grinder fell back laughing and cracked his head on a rock. Seeing this, Reichardt jabbed a finger at him before dissolving in a fit of vapoury coughing. Hans pointed at them both and doubled up with laughter. When he saw the other three unable to stop laughing, Lamberg could not help but join in. Say something, Franz! say something! Reichardt roared, his gums stained with red wine.

The fire was dying down. The bottles were empty. Do you hear? whispered the organ grinder. Do you hear it? (All I can hear are my guts, said Reichardt, haven’t you got anything else?) Hush, there, in among the branches. (What is it, organ grinder? asked Hans.) They’re talking to each other! (I can hear noises, said Lamberg.) They aren’t noises, they are the voices of the wind. (What are you on about? said Reichardt.) It’s the wind, the wind talking. Franz and the organ grinder listened closely, narrowing their eyes. All I hear is silence, old man, Reichardt insisted. There’s no such thing as silence, the organ grinder replied, and he went on listening to the night, head tilted to one side. I don’t know why you’re doing that, old man, said Reichardt. The wind is useful, snorted the organ grinder.

After a week of calculated meetings and assiduous courtesies, Hans achieved his aim and began to pay visits to the Gottlieb residence. Herr Gottlieb would receive him in front of the marble fireplace in the drawing room, smoking his amber pipe. On the mantelpiece stood a row of indolent statuettes that seemed about to topple into the hearth. During his visits, Hans had the chance to study the paintings hanging on the walls more closely — besides a few dusty family portraits, a couple of poor copies of Titian, one or two gloomy still lifes and some dreadful hunting scenes, his attention was drawn to a painting of a figure, seen from behind, walking through a snow-covered forest, lost or perhaps leaving, with a crow perched on a nearby tree trunk.

Herr Gottlieb had a habit of bursting out laughing, almost invariably because of something his daughter said. It was an admiring and at the same time nervous laugh, the laugh men put on when they are listening to an intelligent woman who is much younger than them. Whenever Herr Gottlieb gave one of his guffaws he looked down at the tips of his whiskers, as though surprised at how bushy they were. Hans would spend more time taking tea with him than with Sophie, who would often go out to the dressmaker’s with Elsa, or to go over musical scores at a friend’s house, or to return a social call. Only when he was able to keep Herr Gottlieb talking until the late afternoon did Hans manage to see her and exchange a few words. Sophie was oddly reserved — she seemed intent on avoiding serious conversation or remaining alone with him, but her gaze still had a dizzying effect on Hans. When he was out of luck and left the house early, he would go straight to the market square to accompany the organ grinder back to his cave.

Although Herr Gottlieb had little in common with Hans, he seemed to have found in him the perfect interlocutor. Herr Gottlieb was one of those men who in shying away from intimate conversations show an obvious need for them. Hans sensed that Herr Gottlieb misunderstood his questions yet gave Hans the answers he wanted to hear. And so, after some trivial remark about the beauty of the house, his host seemed to think he was referring to Sophie, and let slip some of his concerns about his daughter. Hans refrained from setting him straight and began listening eagerly. Her mother having died during birth, Herr Gottlieb, who also had a married son living in Dresden, had always been Sophie’s sole guardian. He had brought her up with that mixture of over-protectiveness and panic that is the lot of the youngest members of a family. Herr Gottlieb was undoubtedly proud of his daughter, and yet, perhaps for that very reason, he was also plagued with anxieties. As you have seen for yourself, said Herr Gottlieb, Sophie is an extraordinary young woman (Hans tried not to agree too heartily), but I’ve always feared that with her character and her high expectations it will be hard for her to find a good husband, you see? Perhaps you are worrying unnecessarily, ventured Hans, your daughter seems like a fascinating young woman with a forceful personality (Hans immediately thought: I shouldn’t have said fascinating ), that is, she is a distinguished young woman, and I’m sure she is perfectly. Herr Gottlieb cut across him: If my daughter persists in being so fascinating and strong-willed, she’ll end up with a string of suitors but no husband.

Before Hans had a chance to reply, Herr Gottlieb added: That is why it is imperative that her marriage to Rudi Wilderhaus should take place at the earliest opportunity.

Hans did not respond straight away, as if he had only perceived an echo of what Herr Gottlieb had said and was still waiting to hear his voice. Immediately afterwards he felt something like a blow to the forehead. I beg your pardon? What? Hans stammered, and fate provided another convenient misapprehension — Herr Gottlieb assumed Hans was interested in Rudi Wilderhaus. Just so, replied Herr Gottlieb, none other than the Wilderhauses, if you please, and do you know something? They are in fact very friendly, much more friendly than they are reputed to be, and, naturally, awfully sophisticated (Naturally, said Hans, who hadn’t the slightest idea who they were), but above all, generous. Only a few weeks ago the Wilderhauses were here in this very room, well, in the dining room to be precise, and his parents formally asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage, and I, can you imagine, good God, a Wilderhaus! (I can imagine! exclaimed Hans crossing his legs abruptly) Well, I played hard to get, as is only natural, and after that we settled on the earliest possible date, in October, at the end of the summer. Even so, I confess …

At that moment they heard footsteps and voices at the end of the corridor that led from the hallway to the drawing room. Hans heard the familiar rustle of Sophie’s skirts. Herr Gottlieb stopped in mid-sentence, his face breaking into an expectant smile, which he maintained until his daughter appeared in the doorway.

Why does she look at me like that, if she’s engaged to whatever his name is? Hans wondered. He could think of one reason that was both simple and logical, but dismissed it as too optimistic. That afternoon, Sophie seemed particularly attentive to what he was saying, and kept giving Hans quizzical looks, as though she had guessed why his face was frozen in an expression of disappointment. During his conversation with Sophie, which had taken on a far more intimate tone than on previous occasions, Hans noticed how, progressively and perhaps foolishly, his hope began to feel renewed. He promised himself he would not examine this feeling, but allow it to carry him along like an object borne on the wind. And so, when Sophie declared he would be welcome company (welcome company, Hans savoured the words, mmm, “welcome company”) at her salon, he accepted without hesitation. Sophie Gottlieb held her salon on Fridays at teatime, and at them her guests would discuss wide-ranging questions of literature, philosophy and politics. The only virtue of our humble salon, Sophie went on, is that anyone can say what they like. Apart, should I say, from my good father, with his sense of propriety. (Sophie smiled disarmingly at Herr Gottlieb.) Our only rule is that people be sincere in their opinions, which believe me, Herr Hans, is nothing short of a miracle in a city like this. Guests are free to come and go as they please. No two afternoons are the same, some are incrediby stimulating, others more predictable. As we are in no hurry, these gatherings usually go on until quite late. I understand that for this reason alone, my dear Herr Hans, you would make an ideal member of our circle. (Hans could not help feeling a frisson of pleasure at Sophie’s small gesture of connivance.) We have tea and refreshments, and we serve an aperitif with a few canapés, we do not exactly go hungry. Occasionally we play music or perform impromptu readings from Lessing, Shakespeare or Molière, depending on how the mood takes us. We are relatively at ease in one another’s company — there are only eight or nine regular members, including my father and myself. In short, it is a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, so, if you have nothing better to do this Friday … or are you perhaps leaving before then? Me, leaving? said Hans, sitting bolt upright in his chair. Not at all, not at all.